


Our Heritage, Our History

by Bofur1



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Bilingual Character(s), Canon Compliant, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Head Injury, Khuzdul, Language Barrier, Languages and Linguistics, Major Character Injury, Memorials, Mentioned Character Death, Orphans, Political Campaigns, Poverty, Pre-Canon, Ur Family Feels, unemployment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:38:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Bofur1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child, Bifur absolutely loved the Khuzdûl language and assumed he would speak it forever. He couldn't have been more wrong...or more right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Heritage, Our History

Bifur had always loved the Khuzdûl language. As far back as he could remember he’d had an attraction to the angular runes and rumbling tones. When he was a very young Dwarfling, he had assumed that all Dwarven folk felt this way. Khuzdûl was their language and that was what he spoke.

But as Bifur grew older, he began to notice that those around him used the old Tongue less and less. Westronesse words began to sneak into their vocabulary, and Bifur became dismayed. What about their heritage? Their history?

Sometimes Bifur visited his mother in her small forge shop. The lad watched as one of the swords Béfalei had been making cooled. He studied it intently as the red-hot metal faded to gray. This was the analogy he remembered for Khuzdûl—it was once alive and burning and now it was slowing waning into darkness. Stubbornly he swore to use it whenever he could. He would remind his people of what they had once known.

When Bifur became an adult, he realized that it was much harder for possible employers to understand Khuzdûl. His stubbornness began to yield and he suddenly felt self-conscious, even embarrassed. Bifur cringed as one Man declared him a “gibbering fool”, even though he’d been speaking very slowly and clearly so as not to confuse him. When Bifur brought his orphaned cousins beneath his roof, he knew he needed a job. And he knew what that meant.

Many nights were spent poring over books and learning to form odd syllables on his tongue. Slowly Westronesse began to replace Khuzdûl in Bifur’s daily vocabulary. _If only I had known when I was a child that I would come to this,_ Bifur thought frequently when he found a job as a toymaker. And yet with every careful stroke on wood, he swore that Bofur and Bombur would learn and know the old Tongue well.

His ghivashâlh _treasured ones_ were still amateur speakers of Khuzdûl when Bifur left for a campaign. When the Orcs ambushed them, the Men and Dwarves fought back. However, when Bifur was in danger, he lapsed back into Khuzdûl as he shouted for aid. Another Dwarf whirled, recognizing the tones, but confusion was written all over his face. He had forgotten what the old Words meant. He didn’t know what Bifur needed until it was too late.

As he regained consciousness in the medical tent, Bifur saw a doctor looming over him. It was one of the Men-folk, so Bifur tried to speak in Westronesse. All that came from his throat was a strange gurgling sound and a hoarse whimper.

“Rakhâs sanutanak...” _Orcs came..._ Bifur’s eyes went wide as he started to recall the battle. Urgently he reached out a hand, demanding, “Bekârûh?” _My weapons?_

The doctor looked helplessly at one of his assistants, who sadly shrugged his shoulders. As he sat up, Bifur felt intense pain in his skull. His hand flew to the site of discomfort and found there cold steel instead of flesh.

With wide eyes he glanced at the doctor. “Kheled?” _Glass?_ At their blank expressions, he pointed impatiently to a mirror lying on a table. When handed what he wanted, Bifur saw a blood-crusted axe blade jutting from his skull. The looking glass fell to the ground and shattered, Bifur’s eyes rolled back in his head and he swooned back into blackness.

From there Bifur’s life went haywire. His use of Khuzdûl had once been voluntary, but now that the old Tongue was forced upon him, Bifur couldn’t get work. What was worse was that it was almost impossible for him to speak to Bofur and Bombur.

Bifur longed to tell them that he would still care for them as best he could; that he still loved them and would die for them if necessary; that he longed for them to accept him as he was. But sometimes his vision would spin out of control, blurring their faces. Sometimes he would find himself coughing on their names...and sometimes he couldn’t remember their names at all.

Still, he was able to hope his cousins would find purpose when the Prince of Erabor requested their help on his Quest. Bifur planned on staying behind, wanting his cousins to find a new life. Bofur and Bombur, however, had assumed he was going with them and it was only on the day they were to leave for a place called Hobbiton that he tried to tell them otherwise.

“What’re ye doin’ sittin’ around, Bif’?” Bofur demanded. “An’ where’s th’ pack we helped ye make?”

Bifur gulped, gesturing to his closet. When Bofur opened it, there was the pack sitting empty on the floor.

“You unpacked it?!” Bombur gasped. “Bifur, all our work has been wasted!”

“Lu’,” _No,_ Bifur disagreed. Pointing to them with one hand, he pointed to the door with the other. Then gesturing to himself, he patted his bed where he sat.

Bofur’s jaw dropped. “B-Bifur,” he stammered. “Ye’re...ye’re comin’ with us.” His voice went up by the slightest note at the end, making it a question.

Sighing quietly, Bifur shook his head. “Man rasp irmish. Man mud natuagânud du nahubu ashurtadûl zesul.” _You are ready. You must begin to support each other alone._ He cursed inwardly as Bofur and Bombur exchanged confused and extremely worried looks. Cracking his fingers, Bifur repeated it forcefully in iglishmêk.

Bofur looked almost close to tears. “But ye’re still comin’!” he repeated just as firmly as Bifur’s hand motions had been. “Ye need t’ be with us, just as much fer yer sake as ours!”

Bombur nodded his agreement with his brother’s words, demanding in addition, “Why now? What makes you suddenly want us to grow up and leave you?”

‘ _You’ve already grown up, my little boys_ ,’ Bifur signed sadly. ‘ _Now you—_ ’

“Atkât!” Bofur shouted suddenly, making Bifur’s hands drop into his lap in his disbelief. How had Bofur learned the word for ‘Silence’?

Crossing his arms defiantly, Bofur streamed off what was questionably-worded but still clearly-meant Khuzdûl. “Mênu rasp khaz shomakhâl ra mênu obundul tadûl.” _You are our guardian and you can’t speak other._ He paused, whether to think of the next words or to compose himself Bifur couldn’t know. “Obinshak ked inùdôy khidu.” _Don’t cast out your sons now_.

Thus Bifur went along on the Quest, protecting his boys as he always had and praying Mahal would think his love enough to spare their lives. In the end their Maker granted his request, but there was still a cost to the Battle of Five Armies that none of the Company could have anticipated.

In the end, when his kin were weeping inconsolably over the loss of their king and princes, Bifur hugged them, murmuring quietly to the air. “Dolzekh mênu, dolzekh mênu...” Neither Bofur nor Bombur reacted, meaning that they didn’t understand the words. Bifur was glad, for they would have been angry if they had known he was thanking Mahal that _they_ were alive instead of asking why the Durins weren’t.

He grieved though, just as they did, and he spoke a eulogy at the royal family’s funeral in ancient Khuzdûl.


End file.
